


Used To

by Cour104



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 17:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11166252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cour104/pseuds/Cour104
Summary: ”There’s a place in London called 221B Baker Street. Here resides a consultant detective whose name is Sherlock Holmes. The detective was always getting himself into trouble, dragging his best friend, John Watson, along with him. Although John never wanted to admit it, he lived for these adventures. But now, Sherlock’s going on a new adventure, one John can’t follow him on. Now he has to say goodbye.”





	Used To

Sherlock surveyed the body with an interested “hmmm,” his eyes flickering across it at a rapid pace.

 

“She was found with an arrow lodged right in her side. Isn’t that something?” Molly let out a nervous laugh as she watched Sherlock work. He hardly spared her a glance, continuing to look over the body.  

 

“John,” Sherlock stepped aside, calling his friend to give his professional opinion. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock began snapping his fingers. Impatient as always.

 

“Yes, let’s see,” John leaned over the body, checking it for any wounds. Minus a few minor bruises to the head and hip, likely from when she fell, the only wound was a small hole from where the arrow entered her  side. “I’m not seeing any major injuries, just some bruising and the arrow wound. It’s not likely that the arrow hit any vital organs or caused internal bleeding.”

 

“Then how did she die?” Sherlock asked the question like he already knew the answer, which, John guessed, he did. 

 

“Blood loss?” He rolled his eyes at Sherlock's scoff. “Enlighten us then, will you?”

 

“Blood loss? With a wound that small? No, it’s never that easy, not if they’ve called me here.” Sherlock turned back to the body, his eyes focusing on the arrow wound. “The arrow was lodged in her right side, likely keeping any blood from exiting the wound. Any ignorant person would have pulled the arrow out, which could cause a surplus of blood loss, but once again the wound is small. However, that doesn’t matter, as she was found with the arrow still within her. Does this mean she was smart enough to leave it in? No, of course not. Mid-thirties, bleach blonde, choppy cut hair, capris, she’s likely a football mom. Someone really should phone her husband, her daughter will be waiting for her to pick her up from school. No, she would have taken out the arrow, yet she didn’t. So why not? Because she died before she could.” He made a mocking voice, “Sherlock, how could she have died so quickly if there wasn’t any blood loss?” He smiled, glancing around the room at his audience. “Easy. It was poison. Yes, poison. The arrow was dipped in poison that entered her system when it pierced her skin.”

 

“Bloody brilliant!” John praised, still amazed by Sherlock’s abilities despite how long they’ve worked together.

 

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock’s lips tilted into what could have been considered a smile.

 

“Wait,” Lestrade cut in, looking more confused than he had been before the explanation. “Are you telling me that there’s a bloody maniac wandering the streets shooting people with poisonous arrows?”

 

“No of course not,” Sherlock reassured. “They’re booby traps.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?” Lestrade just kept getting even more confused.

 

“Tell me, if you saw a man walking down the street carrying a large bow and a bag of arrows you’d question him, possibly arresting him, right?”

 

“Of course!”

 

“So he’s not carrying around the bow and arrow. He’s already planted the arrows, this woman just happened to set one off. Unfortunate really.”

 

“Where are the booby traps set?” Lestrade asked, his voice tinged with desperation.

 

“Depends on the killer and the intended victims. Obviously not football moms. No, these are well thought out, carefully planned. Intended for someone specific. But who? WHO!” Sherlock slammed his fists on the table then turned, pacing the room.

 

“Maybe our killer is a devout vegan that booby traps restaurants that serve meat. Or someone very religious that attacks places of worship.” Lestrade attempted, though quickly regretted it at Sherlock's groan.

 

“No, it's more thought out than that. It's a revenge plot, not a terrorist!” Sherlock, twisted his fingers in his hair, pulling at it feverishly.

 

“Where was the body found?” John asked helpfully, watching his partner with exasperation.

 

“Uh, on the sidewalk right near Ivont Academy. ”

 

“Of course, a boarding school!” Sherlock turned on his heel, striding out the room. John exasperatedly chased behind him.

 

“Why are you so happy about a boarding school?” John asked as they got into the cab.

 

“Because John, who goes to schools?”

 

“Children?”

 

“No! Well, yes, but no. Not children. Parents. What if that woman wasn't hit on accident, but rather targeted?”

 

“You're telling me someone's targeting middle aged mums now?”

 

“Well who else right outside a school in the middle of the day? The children and teachers are inside but the parents, they're outside.”

 

John just stared in disbelief as the cab approached the school. Sherlock hardly waited for it to stop before jumping out and racing to where the body was found.

 

“Guess I'm paying then?” John called, though he doubted the detective could hear him.

 

By the time he paid the cabbie and made his way to the scene Sherlock was done.

 

“A wire,” he commented, as if it held any meaning.

 

“A what?” John asked, unamused.

 

“A wire, John!” Sherlock yelled, dropping onto the ground and running his finger over an invisible line. “Clear. Thin. Hardly noticeable if not for the sun gleaming onto it,” as he said that John noticed a light reflecting from the line Sherlock was tracing. “The woman walks down the sidewalk, on her way to pick up her daughter from school. She steps on this wire, triggering the arrow to shoot, striking her in the side. She falls and the poison enters her system, effectively killing her. The police spend their time looking for a killer, never noticing the wire that caused her demise.” 

 

“Incredible the lengths someone will go to for revenge.” 

 

“Yes, revenge. But why her? She hardly seemed the type to make enemies.” 

 

“Perhaps she ruined a bake sale or had an opposing opinion during a PTA meeting,” John joked, though Sherlock was already walking away, no longer interested in the scene. 

 

“There's no time for humor John, lives are at stake!” 

 

“Oh bite me,” John muttered.

 

“Maybe later, I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment,” Sherlock replied smugly.

Back at 221b Baker Street, Sherlock leafed through newspapers as John updated his blog.

 

“Must you write about all our exploits?” Sherlock criticized with a glare.

 

“People happen to enjoy reading my blog,” John reminded with a wave of his hand. 

 

“I don’t see why. The titles are horrid, the cases a bore, and the characters so unrealistic it’s hard to believe you’re writing nonfiction.”

 

“People love my titles, you always decline the boring cases, and, well, had I not known you myself I’d never believe you had existed.”

 

“Strange, I get that a lot,” Sherlock threw down the newspaper as his phone began to ring but as soon as he glanced at the caller he threw it across the room and resumed his reading.

 

“He’s going to phone me next,” John warned, and if on cue his phone began to vibrate. He suppressed a chuckle, holding it out for Sherlock.

 

“I have no reason to speak to him. If it were important he’d send for me.”

 

“You and Mycroft really need to stop with these childish squabbles.”

 

“John, say that again,” Sherlock stood now, his hands pressed to his lips as if that pose helped him think. 

 

“You and Mycroft-”

 

“No! The last part!” Sherlock burst, now pacing the room. 

 

“Childish squabbles?”

 

“Yes! I’ve been so stupid! The woman, she wasn’t a target, she was practice. A trap set just to see if it would work.”   
  


“What are you going on about?” Now John was standing, his eyebrows raised.

 

“This case, it’s a childish squabble! A student pushed to their limit now lashing out. How could I have not seen it sooner? It’s so obvious!” Sherlock grabbed a knife and stabbed it into the wall, much to John’s dismay.

 

“You’re getting quicker,” he commented, hoping the complement would calm his friend.

 

“Yes, well, as they say ‘practice makes perfect.’ We can’t let it get to perfect. Let’s go!” Sherlock grabbed his coat and raced out the door, only to return seconds later to grab his signature hat. John grinned, pocketing his gun and following after his excitable friend.

Unsurprisingly, the principle was reluctant to let a raging sociopath and ex soldier carrying firearms into the building.

 

“This is a matter of utmost importance!” Sherlock told her for the upteenth time, ignoring John’s glare.

 

“Excuse my friend, ma’am,” John apologized, directing Sherlock to go sit in the chairs lining the wall. He at first refused, locking John into a staring contest before finally giving in and stomping across the room. He threw himself across them, ignoring the arms poking into his back.

 

“Is he always like that?” She whispered, throwing a glance in his direction.

 

“Unfortunately,” John confirmed with a grimace. “He has a touch of the dramatics.”

 

“I heard that!” Sherlock protested, rolling over to face John which only resulting in him flopping onto the floor, where he remained sprawled.

 

“Anyways, what can you tell us about the death that happened outside the other day?”

 

“Oh, it was just dreadful. It was Mrs. Flint, the mother of one of our student’s. The poor girl was near traumatized when she found out! Parents have been showing up all week to pick up their children for holiday, only a handful remain. We’ve just been out of our minds with worry, doing everything we can to keep them save. Security guards around campus, doors firmly locked, keeping them all in the same classroom-”

 

“No! Terrible idea!” Sherlock jumped up, storming over to the desk,”you’ve given them exactly what they wanted!”

 

“I beg your pardon?” The principal looked appalled.

 

“The killer, they knew this would happen! She was more than just practice, she was a warning, used to set up the stage! We need to get to that classroom, NOW!” Sherlock slammed his fists onto the desk, causing the principal to startle with fear.

 

“Please ma’am,” John asked politely, his eyes pleading. She nodded, motioning to the doors. 

 

The duo sprinted down the hallway, sliding to a stop in front of the only active classroom. About 15 students sat boredly at their desks, unaware of the danger around them. Sherlock threw open the door.

 

“Nobody move!” He demanded, causing 15 heads to turn in his direction. The teacher screamed, her Expo marker dropping to the floor, the unsolved equation on the board forgotten. 

 

“No need to be alarmed, just remain seated,” John attempted to soothe the class, always fixing Sherlock's messes.

 

Sherlock stood still his eyes a flurry. Then they stopped. He squeezed them shut, pointing around the room.

 

“Not you, not you, you, not you, x equals 27, not you, not you, not you, you, not you, not you, not you, not you, you, you, not you. But who set it all up?” He pressed his hands against his temples, squeezing his eyes tighter.

 

“Aren’t you Sherlock Holmes?” A student spoke up, pulling the detective from his mind.

 

“Yes and I’m here to solve a crime.”

 

“What crime?”

 

“One that hopefully won’t happen.”

 

There was a bustle of movement down the aisle and then the kid closest to Sherlock held out a small piece of paper to him. He plucked it from the child's hand, his eyes widening as he unfolded it. They hardened as he crumpled the paper up and shoved it into his pocket.

 

“What was that?” John questioned, looking over Sherlock worriedly. He offered a tight smile.

 

“It was nothing, just a love note. You know kids these days, check yes or no.”

 

John squinted his eyes in consideration before allowing himself to accept the answer.

 

“Um, Sherlock,” another kid piped up, waving her hand, “Why did you point at us saying ‘you’ and ‘not you’?”

 

“Oh, yes, you see there are booby traps set out throughout the classroom designed to go off when several of you stand up, effectively killing you.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?” One of the “you”s asked, visibly paling.

 

“It seems that some of you have been rather naughty. Unfortunately, that does not come without its consequences. But, don’t worry, I am here to disable the traps, saving the day, per usual.”

 

“Can I go to the bathroom?” A boy asked, getting out of his seat.

 

“It is imperative that everyone remain in their seats until the traps are disabled, as to not accidently set one off.”

 

“Considering I’m already standing it’s likely that I’m not about to face my demise. You also said ‘not you’ when you pointed at me. I am regretful to miss all the fun, as it did just get interesting, but nature calls.” The boy made his way down the aisle, pushing through the pair and out the door. Sherlock blinked disbelievingly and John chuckled.

 

“Looks like you met your match. It wasn’t Moriarty at all but rather a teenage boy.”

 

At the name “Moriarty” Sherlock grimaced, but turned his attention back to the class. He carefully made his way to the teacher's desk, snagging a pair of scissors. After that, it took him approximately 3 minutes to disable the booby traps. John noted that this case may just be a new record.

 

“Child's play,” Sherlock commented, twirling the scissors around his finger as they exited the classroom. John almost pointed out that he was stealing those from a school, but decided against it. He doubted Sherlock cared.

 

“Sherlock!” The boy from before raced down the hall, panting as he reached the detective. “The janitor, arrow, bathroom,” he pointed down the hall, not even forming a complete sentence yet giving all the information needed. Sherlock took off.

 

When they entered the bathroom they noticed something: the lack of a dead body. John turned, trying the door, but it was locked.

 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, rubbing a hand across his face.

 

“He told me you would try to stop me,” a voice, the boy’s voice, spoke from the speakers. He clicked his tongue in a mocking manner. “You were quick, quicker than I expected. It is a cliche I suppose, a boy is bullied, pushed to his breaking point, then gets revenge. I never really had a breaking point, I just had to wait. Finally holiday came around and students left by the dozen. Now I just had to make sure the ones I needed stayed. It only took a few minutes to hack into their parents accounts, changing vacation plans, scheduling appointments, you name it. There were still a few students left that didn’t matter but, hey, the pressure to not mess up only made the game funner. Besides, who cares about a little collateral damage?”

 

“Like Mrs. Flint?” John called up at the speaker.

 

“Who? Oh, is that the woman I hit outside, I never did catch her name. No, she needed to go. They needed to be scared, needed to come together. People sure are funny, right Sherlock? Coming together like that, it just makes them easier to hit. Of course, it also makes it easier to blend in. You didn’t even notice a killer walking right by you. Though, your mind was a bit preoccupied wasn’t it. He scares you, doesn’t he?” The boy laughed and John noticed how tense Sherlock was. He placed a hand on his shoulder and he jumped, then relaxed, seeming to be calmed by the contact. “Miss me?” The boy asked and John saw Sherlock clutching a piece of paper in his hand. John gently pried it from his grip, reading the smudged writing.  _ Miss me? _

 

“What’s your problem?” John demanded, scowling at the speaker.

 

“My problem? My problem is that these people mock me. Taunting me in the hall, calling me things like a freak. All just because I’m different. Smarter. They’re jealous the principal tells me, bloody useless woman. Ignore them they tell me. They do nothing to stop them, so I took matters into my own hands. Then Sherlock Holmes waltzes in and ruins everything. Hours of planning down the drain! Do you know how bloody difficult it is to get poison and arrows delivered to a private school without anyone finding out? I thought you’d be on my side Sherlock, but you weren’t. You were on theirs. A bully!” The speaker cut out, leaving the two standing in silence.

 

“Don’t move!” Sherlock warned John, his arms flying up his head. He pulled at his hair, spinning in a circle.

 

“Sherlock,” John looked at him worriedly.

 

“Don’t!” Sherlock cried, stopping mid-rotation, his eyes searching.

 

“Sherlock!” John stepped towards his friend.

 

Sherlock froze, a click sounding in his ear. Time stood still as he searched, his eyes scanning the scene. Finally his sight landed on a small glint, right under John’s foot. A wire. In slow motion Sherlock watched as John lifted his foot and, for the first time in his life, he acted without thinking. Tackling John to the ground. As he fell, he felt the arrow embed itself in his side. Yet, he couldn’t keep himself from smiling. John was saved.

 

“Sherlock!” John cried, pulling his friend off of him. “What in the world are you-” his words died as he saw it. An arrow. 

 

“I did tell you not to move,” Sherlock reminded, a laugh escaping his lips, followed by a whimper of pain.

 

“How long?” John asked, his voice nothing more than a whisper. “How long until the poison…”

 

“Well, you’re the doctor, you tell me.”

 

John shook his head, even in death the man was insufferable.

 

“John?” Sherlock asked, his previous humor escaping him. “Are you okay?”

 

“Am I okay?” Now it was John’s turn to laugh. “You’ve got poison coursing through your veins and you want to know if I’m okay?” Tears sprung to life, spilling onto John’s cheeks.

 

“I always want to know if you're okay,” Sherlock admitted, reaching up a shaky hand to wipe away the tears.

 

“Will you..Are you..?”John couldn’t make himself ask the question he feared he already knew the answer to.

 

“I’m dying, John,” as Sherlock said it, tears began to fill his own eyes. “For real this time,” he added, just to clarify. John shook his head, choking back a sob.

 

“I can’t lose you, Sherlock. Not again, not like this.”

 

“I’m afraid you have no choice.”

 

John pulled Sherlock into a hug, disheartened by how much he was trembling.

 

“Sherlock, I just want you to know,” John took a deep breath, preparing himself, ”you were one of the best things to ever happen to me. You made each day an adventure. You were-  _ are- _ my best friend and I love you.”

 

“Oh, save it for the eulogy.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Fine. John, you are a great, no,  _ good  _ man. You made my life so much better just by being a part of it. I don’t know why you stuck around but when you did you changed me. You helped me become a better person. I never thought I’d have a friend, let alone a best one, but you’re him and always will be. I...I love you.” Sherlock’s breath came in short gasps now and John knew their time was running out. “Tell Mycroft that I’m sorry and tell Mrs. Hudson that she was _ always _ more than just a landlady.” Sherlock let out a violent cough and John heart fell when it contained blood.

 

“I don’t know what to do without you,” John admitted, clutching onto Sherlock’s hand, as if that’d keep him with him forever.

 

“You’re a smart man, John. You’ll figure something out,” Sherlock sounded weak now, his eyes fluttering.

 

“Hey, look at me,” John comforted, moving to cradle Sherlock’s head. He was violently trembling now. He brushed his dark curls from his damp forehead, keeping their eyes locked. He needed to stay awake. He needed to stay  _ alive _ . John studied Sherlock’s eyes with a newfound appreciation. He knew when they closed they would never again open. 

 

“I’m bored,” Sherlock murmured, inducing a teary laugh to escape John’s lips.

 

“I’m surprised,” John replied sarcastically, “The great Sherlock Holmes stares death in the eye and get’s filled with boredom.” 

 

“Will you… Tell me a story?”

 

“One of our adventures?”

 

“I’ve heard all those before.”

 

“Just one last adventure, for old times sake?” John’s eyes were pleading and Sherlock nodded.

 

John took a deep breath before continuing,”There’s a place in London called 221B Baker Street. Here resides a consultant detective whose name is Sherlock Holmes. The detective was always getting himself into trouble, dragging his best friend, John Watson, along with him. Although John never wanted to admit it, he lived for these adventures. But now, Sherlock’s going on a new adventure, one John can’t follow him on. Now he has to say goodbye.” John let out a shaky breath as Sherlock’s trembling body began to still. “Goodbye, Sherlock,” John sobbed, gathering him into a hug. He knew, without even needing to check his pulse, that his best friend was gone. He could sense it.

 

When Lestrade arrived, having been summoned by the principal who told of two crazed men demanding access to the building, he knew. As he strode down the hall, ready to give the pair a piece of his mind, his confident stride quickly morphed into a frantic charge at the sound of sobbing. He pressed his ear against the bathroom door, forcing it open when the handle wouldn’t budge. His heart fell at the scene playing out in front of him.

 

“John?” He asked, his voice an octave higher than usual.

 

John’s sobbing ceased and he stood on shaky legs. Lestrade covered his mouth as he took in Sherlock’s still form.

 

“I guess I’ll phone an ambulance then,” mumbled his voice empty. 

 

John nodded, turning to give Sherlock on last look before turning and walking away.

 

The cab ride home was silent. John hadn’t said a word since saying goodbye to Sherlock. He wasn’t sure he wanted to speak in a world without Sherlock. He knocked at the door remembering the Sherlock had the key. He hadn’t brought his with him. He didn’t think he’d need it.

 

When Mrs. Hudson answered the door she gave John a worried look.

 

“Where’s Sherlock?”   
  


It was an innocent question, yet it absolutely  _ broke  _ John. He let out a choked sob, falling into Mrs. Hudson's arms. She helped him up to his flat, putting on a pot of tea.

 

“Explain,” she said it gently, yet forcefully, sitting at the table across from him.

 

He did. He told her everything from the school to the arrow to the story. By the end of it, the two were left with tear streaked faces drinking cold tea, for it had been left sitting too long forgotten. When she excused herself, John at first welcomed the silence. Then, he didn’t. The silence only reminded him of what was missing. There was no Sherlock playing violin. No Sherlock muttering theories to himself, pacing throughout the flat. No Sherlock  shooting at the wall out of pure boredom. No Sherlock. When the car arrived for John, he was thankful to leave.

 

John was surprised, yet unsurprised, when the car took him to a fancy restaurant rather than the places him and Mycroft usually met. Though he wasn’t a Holmes, John was still able to make a few deductions. Mycroft wanted to meet at a public place as a further incentive not to have a breakdown. He was really upset about this.

 

“What happened?” Mycroft asked before John even had a chance to sit down. 

 

Mycroft kept a straight face the entire time, nodding with understanding as the weight of John’s words sunk into him. He clutched his napkin in his hands, twisting it and untwisting it.

 

“Mycroft,” John’s voice was shaky, tears filling his eyes, “if this is all just another scheme, I need to know.”

 

“I promise you, it’s not,” Mycroft’s voice was filled with regret.

 

“Please, tell me this time. Tell me he isn’t dead,” John pleaded.

 

“I can’t do that, I wish I could.”

 

When the waiter came to deliver their meals, John studied him.

 

“He’s not going to be here,” Mycroft promised him. “I know that’s how he revealed himself last time. I see the way you search the faces of the staff, but none of them are him. He’s gone.” Mycroft's voice broke with that last sentence and without eating he got up and left. 

 

John examined each waiter. Each time, for just a second, he saw him. Then the face flickered and it was a stranger. Drained of hope, John followed Mycroft from the restaurant. 

 

The funeral was a lovely service. John walked numbly throughout the crowd of friends and family, his ears overwhelmed by the sheer amount of  times he was told “I’m sorry for you loss.”

 

Although it was an open casket, John refused to look at Sherlock. Not the Sherlock whose eyes were closed. Not the Sherlock who was still and silent. Not the Sherlock who was pumped full of chemicals. That wasn’t _ his _ Sherlock. His Sherlock’s eyes were bright and full of life. His Sherlock was fidgety and loud. The only chemicals his Sherlock were filled with were the ones that made Mycroft disappointed and got him slapped by Molly.  He already said goodbye to that Sherlock.

 

He hated to disobey one of Sherlock’s last insistence, but he saved nothing for the eulogy. In fact, he didn’t give one. Everyone already knew how John felt about Sherlock, he didn’t need to give a speech about it. Besides, he couldn’t stand the thought of talking about how Sherlock  _ used to _ be. What he  _ used to _ say. What he  _ used to _ do.  He’s come to detest the phrase  _ used to _ . 

 

When it was finally time to put the coffin in the ground, John couldn’t stop thinking about how Sherlock didn’t  _ belong _ there. He didn’t belong in a box buried six feet underground. He didn’t belong in a graveyard surrounded by other corpses. He belonged at 221B, dismissing “boring” clients with a wave of his hand. He belonged next to John, chasing after a criminal, or running from the police. He belonged with the living.

 

When hours had passed and everyone else had long since disappeared, back to their old lives, as if Sherlock never existed, John stayed. He stared at the headstone, all that was left of Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Please,” he begged the unforgiving stone, “don’t be dead.” He ran his fingers across the rough edges of the stone. “Do you remember when I said that last time? You came back. So please, for me, just one more time,  _ don’t be dead _ .” 

 

His shoulders slumped as he turned and walked away, praying to every god he knew that he would wake up tomorrow and none of this would be real.

 

It was real.

 

When John first woke up, rousing himself awake after a fitful night of dreams filled with the horrors of war, he felt bliss. Because for those first few seconds, Sherlock was alive. Sherlock was alive and well and in the living room or the kitchen or anywhere but a coffin. But then those seconds ended and Sherlock was dead. John stumbled out of bed, ignoring the clock that told him it was still only 3am.  

 

He flopped, rather ungracefully, onto the couch and as he laid there he swore he could hear the violin. Tears sprung to his eyes as he listened to its beautiful melodies.

 

“Would you stop crying, John? Human emotion doesn’t look good on anyone. Besides, why mourn the dead when you’ll end up dead yourself? I much prefer to mourn the living?”

 

John jumped up, his eyes searching wildly, yet there was no Sherlock to be seen.

 

“If this is a game I’m going to be  _ very  _ upset!” John yelled at no one, hoping that it was, in fact, a game.

 

He sighed, heading over to the fridge for what he’d have to consider breakfast. He jumped, startled to find a human foot sitting on the top shelf.

 

“Sherlock, how many times have I told you not to-” What started out as a yell faded into a whisper, then stopped completely as John realized Sherlock wouldn’t hear him.

 

“Bored!” John turned to the sound of a gunshot, but there were no new holes decorating their wall.  _ His _ wall.

 

“I need you to stop! I need you to get out of my head and stop!” 

 

“John, what is with all the shouting, you startled me right out of bed!” Mrs. Hudson entered the kitchen, her arms crossed.

 

“Mrs. Hudson, have you been hearing anything strange?” John asked cautiously.

 

“Besides you shouting up a storm in the middle of the night? No, I don’t believe I have. Why?”

 

“No reason. I’m going out, there’s a foot in the fridge, can you take care of that?”

 

“I’m not your housekeeper!” She called after him.

 

When John arrived at Sherlock's grave, he paced uneasily. 

 

“Mycroft, he tells me you're dead,” John explained to the headstone,”but I asked you to be alive. And I hear you, but never see you and ARE YOU DEAD? Sherlock are you dead? I need to know!” He grabbed a shovel and began to dig.

 

At the funeral, he hadn’t wanted to see Sherlock’s corpse. Hadn’t been  _ able _ to see Sherlock’s corpse. Mostly, it was because he didn’t want to see him like that. He wanted the last time he saw Sherlock to be while he was alive. But, part of him wanted to hold on to hope. Maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t really Sherlock Holmes in that casket. Maybe it was another decoy. John knew that if he looked, he’d know for sure. And he didn’t know if he could handel who he’d see.

 

When John hit wood he took a shaky breath. He tossed the shovel away and traced the edge of the coffin with trembling fingers. His heart beated heavily as pried back the lid, revealing Sherlock's still form. John let out a heartbreaking sob because yes, this was Sherlock Holmes. He pulled his cold, lifeless friend into his arms and let out all the sorrow he’s felt from the last few days.

 

When Lestrade arrived, called on the pretense of a grave robbery, he was unsettled to find a disturbed John Watson clinging to a lifeless Sherlock Holmes for the second time.

 

In the end it took several of Lestrade’s men to pull John from the body, who continued to cry out for Sherlock as they dragged him to the police car. Unsure how to handle the situation they called Mycroft, who suggested they take him to a mental institution “just to make sure.”

 

“It’s been two months, John,” Mycroft addressed, ignoring John’s blank stare. “Your nurses say you mutter things to yourself, things like ‘stop being arrogant’ and ‘you bloody arse.’ They say you limp throughout the hall alone, every so often nodding as if someone next to you were explaining its importance,” he scrubbed a hand across his face. “You see him don’t you?”

 

John ignored him, a far away look in his eyes.

 

“I know you miss him. Do you think I don’t miss him? I know it may not seem like it, but he was my baby brother.” Mycroft sighed, squeezing his eyes shut as if pushing away memories. “You’re just like him you know. When something bad would happen he’d always do something mentally unhealthy, whether it be drugs or retreating into his “mind palace” for days on end. But after a while, he’d always come back.  _ You _ need to come back.” Mycroft sighed, leaning forward in his chair. “He cared about you, John. Cared about you like I’d never seen him care about another person in his life. He once asked me to cash in one of his favors, to which I reminded him the supply was dwindling. You know what he asked me to do? He told me that should anything happen to him I was to look after you. Look after you as if you were family, because to him you were. I’m trying, John, I really am, but I need your cooperation.”

 

“I don’t see him,” John informed, his gaze held on Mycroft's. “I  _ hear _ him.”

 

“And what, dare I ask, does he tell you?”

 

“To listen to you.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes. He said you were always the smart one.”

 

Mycroft let out a chuckle, nodding his head in agreement.

 

“I really did ask him that,” Sherlock admitted, now standing at the opposite end of the room. John blinked. He was still there. “And he’s right. He has to be, or the world would implode. That’s what he told me as a child at least,” Sherlock walked airly around the room, not seeming to notice that he should be dead. “I am dead you know,” he clarified, as if he could read John’s thoughts. “I  _ am _ your thoughts.”

 

“What are you doing here?” John asked, his eyes following his “thoughts” around the room.

 

“I told you, I’m here to help you,” Mycroft replied.

 

“Not you,” John ignored his questioning look, too focused on the other Holmes brother in the room.

 

“I’m here because you need me, John. You could always hear me, but never see me. Why do you suppose that is?”

 

“I-I didn’t want to see you. The last time I saw you you were alive. I wanted that to stay the last time I saw you. But then I _ needed  _ to see you.”

 

“So you dug up my grave. But you still never saw  _ me _ . Why now?”

 

“Can’t you just tell me?”

 

“What’s the fun in that?”

 

“ _ Sherlock _ ,” John’s voice was tense, like when Sherlock would withhold information during a case just to keep everyone guessing until his big reveal.

 

“You see him, don’t you?” Mycroft spoke this time, following John’s gaze. There was no one there.

 

“You see me because you need to say goodbye. You need to see me one last time.”

 

“I already said goodbye, as you were dying.”

 

“Yes, you said goodbye to Sherlock, but did you say goodbye to everything else. Did you say goodbye to the cases? To the violin waking you up at three in the morning? To the sound of a gun shooting the wall? When you went back to 221B the violin was still there. The holes in the wall were still there. The foot in the fridge was still there.  _ Sherlock _ was still there. His presence everywhere you looked. You could still hear him, because it was as if he never died,” Tears streamed down John’s face as Sherlock explained everything to him, likely for the last time. “It drove you out of your mind. But you need to say goodbye. Goodbye to me and everything I did. When I died, I took everything with me. Let Mycroft help you. It’s okay to remember, but to pretend something is how it once was is not. Say goodbye.”

 

John wiped the tears from his cheeks as Sherlock began to snap his fingers. Even in death he was impatient. 

 

“Goodbye, Sherlock.” 

 

Sherlock smiled, then faded away.

 

When John entered 221B, it was silent. He sighed, staring at the wall. Sherlock put those holes there, but he wouldn’t be adding more. His finger ran over the violin. Sherlock used to play this, but he wouldn’t anymore.

 

It was hard, using the phrase used to.

 

It was hard, seeing only memories without a present or a future.

 

It was hard seeing Sherlock without being able to  _ see _ him.

 

John knew everything would be hard, for a while, but he would cope. It’s what Sherlock would have wanted.

 

_ Would have. _

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
